


Be So Good

by significantowl



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective!Erik, X-Men First Class Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For an  prompt in which Charles has a pre-existing injury that flares up during sex with Erik. Being Erik and Charles, this leads to Issues (and a fair dose of hurt/comfort, too).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be So Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Black_Betty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Betty/gifts).



> Complete text of the prompt and original fic posting [here](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/8074.html?thread=17853066#t17853066).

"Did I break you?” Erik asks, running a hand low. He’s always loved the planes of a man’s back, the way the sturdy breadth of shoulders tapers down to the fluid, flexible potential of a waist. And like so much about Charles, the fair sweep of skin under Erik’s hand proves even more beguiling than it ought to be, far more than the sum of its parts.

Erik keeps that last thought very quiet. More than a reaction to this kind of closeness with a telepath, it’s an old habit, long habit, _safe_ habit; if you must care, care quietly, a whisper behind a wall.

But his habits are not Charles’, and Erik feels a creeping suspicion - it’s an uncomfortable feeling, but it wears easier than disappointment - at having none of Charles’ usual warm, exhausted pleasure curling round the edges of his perception. By now, Erik is used to the weight of Charles' post-sex lethargy blanketing his own.

Charles hums, not raising his head from where he’s sprawled on his stomach on the nubby carpet of his office. There will be a stain beneath him, Erik has no doubt, and enjoys imagining Charles’ undergraduates staring at it when they crawl into his office hours with shoddy work, too ashamed to meet their professor’s unbearably understanding eyes. Charles says, "Call that a victory, would you?”

Not reaching out with his mind, and not reaching out with his body, either. Erik is at his side, bare centimeters away, yet Charles might as well be his own island. He hasn’t made a single move to touch or to draw closer, and normally Charles isn’t happy if there’s a breath of space to be found between them. It’s that which keeps Erik from answering, from uttering a low, teasing, "Show me a man who wouldn’t;" he almost says it anyway, because he knows Charles likes to imagine himself as someone who takes no satisfaction from power over another, and that's worth challenging every now and then.

"I think I’ll just sleep right here tonight,” Charles says into Erik’s silence. He sounds contentedly shagged-out, but Erik’s a heartbeat away, Charles’ too-tight tendons and muscles under his fingertips. He’ll take the evidence in his hands over the words; that’s always the way.

"I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time your students found you asleep in your office, but the naked-on-the floor aspect would probably come as a surprise.”

Charles snorts, appearing to be nothing but comfortably amused. While he’s in the midst of that artifice, Erik says,"Go on. Move to the sofa.”

"No thank you, I’m fine where I am.”

"Move to the sofa with me,” Erik repeats, and Charles sighs, gusty and resigned.

"Clearly, you’ve realised it isn’t going to be that simple.”

"I have,” Erik says. He waits, his silence an invitation that Charles chooses not to accept. "All right, since you don’t want to share how you’re feeling, why not tell me what _I’m_ feeling instead?”

"You’re angry that I let you hurt me in the first place.” Charles’ voice is muffled because he’s talking to the carpet, head still buried on his folded arms. "Furious that I didn’t tell you, that I tried to take the choice of feeling responsible away from you.” He rolls his head to the side, then, squinting up at Erik with one visible eye. _You have to admit, I didn’t try particularly hard._

A deliberate projection, of course, a reminder that Charles has options at his disposal that Erik would care for even less. "Careful, Charles, ‘I could have done worse’ is supposed to be my idea of a winning argument, not yours.”

Charles makes a sound that is probably supposed to be a put-upon sigh, but becomes something much more jagged, on the edge of a whimper.

"Charles,” Eriks says, voice harsh even by his own standards. "What do you need? _Talk_.”

"There are muscle relaxers in the top-right drawer, but I don’t want to take them.”

Rising to his feet, Erik yanks the drawer open from across the room. Prescription medication kept within arm’s reach means that between Erik, Charles, and Charles’ doctor, the only one surprised by this turn of events would be Erik.

"Matters may have proceeded with an enthusiasm I hadn’t anticipated,” Charles says.

"You do know the word ‘stop’, don’t you?”

"Perhaps it slipped my mind.”

Halfway back to Charles, fingers tight on the pill bottle, Erik halts. Like everything else powered by guilt, it’s cold, this wave of anger, it’s freezing.

The calendar that normally hangs on the back of Charles’ office door - standard university promotional material, full of diverse students on the brink of enlightenment - is now on the floor, torn and trampled by Erik’s feet. It fell when Erik crowded Charles against the door, hands under his ass, lifting; when Erik’s own need must have been too loud for Charles to hear his own body.

And Charles had gripped Erik’s shoulders, digging his fingers into muscle, and wrapped his legs around Erik’s waist, and arched his back against the wood -

"That’s not helping, Charles,” Erik says, even if it is, a little, even if it’s enough to get Erik walking again. Good that Erik hadn’t been the only one, that Charles had been every bit as desperate, as loud and overcome with it as Erik. Bad that Erik hadn’t noticed, hadn’t adjusted, hadn’t seen that as all the more reason to take care.

Erik crouches next to Charles, drawing over his own stainless steel water bottle with a twitch of his fingers. Whatever’s left in it won’t be cold, but it’ll be wet. "What’s the best way to get you upright?”

"I’d rather not be,” is Charles’ idea of an appropriate response. Erik sets his jaw and waits.

Charles sucks in air before he begins to move, rolling onto his side with glacial slowness, huffing short, pained breaths between his teeth that turn into full-blown panting as he rises onto one elbow. Erik wants to reach out, but he’s afraid of making it worse, so he hovers, uncertain, wrists balanced on his knees. When Charles extends his hand toward the pill bottle, Erik has to shake his head and say, "Higher,” because he has no intention of watching Charles choke to death tonight.

_Bastard_ , Charles thinks at him, and he surely didn’t mean to send agony along with it, all sharp and seizing, but Erik’s glad for the jolt of pain, because it’s honest, and now Erik knows unequivocally what he’s dealing with.

When Charles has inched upwards enough that Erik feels certain the pill will clear his throat safely, he shakes one out into his palm and holds it out along with the water. Charles gulps it down messily, water sluicing down his chin and dripping onto the carpet. As soon as Erik pulls the water bottle away, Charles drops down so that he’s supported by his forearms, head hanging between his shoulders.

"I’m afraid I’m going to be somewhat incoherent soon.” Charles’ voice is stretched thinner, now, tight. "Before you go - when I seem able - will you help me into my clothes and onto the sofa?”

"Into your clothes, yes.”

"Handy that you can lock the door behind yourself without needing to take my key -”

"No.”

"I’m sorry?”

"Those pills must work fast,” Erik says, short. "You’re talking nonsense already.”

Faint tremors are running between Charles’ shoulders, down his upper arms. For once, he makes no reply, not in thoughts, feelings, or words; whether this means he accepts his clear error in trying to send Erik away, or is simply hurting too fiercely at the moment to communicate anything but pain, Erik doesn’t know.

Erik’s phone sails free of his discarded clothes and lands a useful, satisfying weight in his hand. Neither he nor Charles have a car parked on campus, and the subway is out of the question. Erik has entered three digits when Charles says, choking out a laugh, "Oh, that’s a horrendous idea.”

"No worse than yours.” Erik doesn’t stop dialing.

"Leaving me alone in an unoccupied building,” Charles pauses to breathe, harshly, "with no minds to affect is hardly worse than letting me behind the wheel of a car, which is essentially what you’d be doing.”

It’s a fair point, Erik has to concede, and he ends the call to the taxi company without speaking to the man who by now is shouting "Yes, location, what,” on the other end. "You’re certain the building is unoccupied?” Erik asks.

"Yes. There’s not a soul in the offices, the labs are closed, even Hank went home over an hour ago.”

"Well, then.” Erik sets his phone down, and places his hand over Charles’, who immediately grips it blood-tight. "Sounds like we’re in for an interesting night.”

*

Erik expects to spend the next six hours more or less stoned out of his mind. He considers the matter practically: it will be a good opportunity to test the steel of his mental walls without any unhappy little creases appearing on Charles' forehead as a result. Erik is both personally and politically committed to the idea of Charles being able to interact with the world in whatever way is most natural and comfortable for him; he has a special glare for those who dare throw words like "unsettling" around after Charles leaves a room, and no-one’s ever been foolish enough to deserve it twice. But that doesn't mean Erik has to be anyone's open book. He's in control of the covers.

He adapts to Charles, and Charles adapts to him. That's how it works.

Erik lets the degree of feeling in his fingers be his measure for determining when Charles might be ready to move. As Charles' grip loosens enough that blood starts flowing again, and Erik's fingers begin to go from numb to cramped and tingly, Erik gently pulls away. He kisses Charles' shoulder, and Charles sinks down to the carpet under that tiny pressure with a sigh, like he's happy to go.

Charles' trousers are bunched under the wheels of his rolling desk chair, and his blue button-down is draped over a stack of books by the window. Simple enough to for Erik to collect with his power, between zipper and buckle and cufflinks, but Erik stands instead, and his knees thank him for it. He’s steady on his feet as he crosses the room, and while he puts on his own clothes, but as he reaches down for Charles’ shirt, the movement seems strangely slow and clumsy to his eye, and he knows it's Charles' fogginess, seeping in already.

"Better get this done quickly," Erik says.

"Quickly, yes, quickly, yes," Charles agrees, and seems likely to continue agreeing until Erik tells him to hush.

The trousers go on smoothly enough - Erik's able to dodge Charles' feet when he makes an uncoordinated attempt at helping, and Charles raises his hips readily when Erik pats at them, allowing Erik to tug the trousers up over the curve of his ass. The zipper Erik deals with slowly, being wary of catching Charles’ cock in its teeth. And, to be honest, he’s a little distracted by the view; he’s never undone Charles' trousers to find him like this, instantly on display, no protective layer of underwear in the way. If he was soft, like he is now, Erik could slip just his forefinger inside, tease Charles and watch him grow. If he was hard, Charles would jut out the moment Erik pulled the zipper low enough, and with his pulse racing from the surprise of it, Erik would -

"Christ," Charles says, bringing his hands up to his face, prodding at his forehead like he’s trying to root Erik out.

Erik could apologize, but he just bites the smile off his lips instead. 

The shirt proves more difficult, with Charles floundering all over the place. He appears to take the right sleeve in particular as some sort of personal challenge, and Erik finally has to just sit back on his heels and wait for Charles to exhaust himself, because the only other option is to pin Charles’ elbows, and how is he supposed to work them into the sleeves then?

"It’s like dressing a small child,” Erik says, and much like a small child, Charles ignores him in favor of frowning at the thing he can't control.

They make it to the sofa, finally - Charles lists dangerously when he gets to his knees, and Erik half-carries, half-drags him the rest of the way - and they settle in, Charles flat on his back, head on a cushion in Erik’s lap. Charles looks up at him, narrowing his eyes like he's trying and failing to bring Erik into focus. "Thank you."

Erik snorts, fitting his palm to Charles' scalp. Someone else might have been fooled, but they both know that gratitude doesn't necessarily mean concession, that Charles has suddenly decided to agree that yes, Erik was right to have stayed. And that's fine.

"Do us both a favor," Erik says, fingers slipping through Charles' thick hair. "Go to sleep." Not that Charles will be any easier to block if he’s asleep; if anything, he may be more difficult. But it will be a favor to Erik nonetheless, to see him rest.

An hour passes, marked off in the steady, mechanical grind of the gears in Erik’s watch. Sixty minutes without being pulled down into Charles’ sleep, or - worse - having his dreams become Erik’s waking world: it should be impressive, a victory. To Erik, it feels like a start.

*

A pull on the lock of Charles' office door jerks Erik into full awareness. He takes care of the matter at once, fusing the mechanism into inoperability, and it’s only after that’s done that Erik takes in the sunlight streaming in through the window, and realizes that the university has woken around them.

Outside the door, there’s grunting, and cursing, and attempts at jiggling a key that will never be capable of turning again - all the sounds of Hank McCoy doing his best to disprove the common assumption that he’s some sort of genius.

Charles stirs, rolling to one side, cheek pressing against Erik's leg. "You could let him in.”

"I could do a lot of things,” Erik says dangerously, because Charles had been asleep, and now he isn’t.

"I have a class to teach,” Charles tugs at Erik’s left wrist, commandeering his watch, "in forty-five minutes. And I’m certain you have work you mean to accomplish today as well.”

"Charles. You can’t even stand up.”

"Not true. It's going to be painful to stand up, but once that's been achieved I’ll be fine.”

"Your plan is to remain vertical for the entire day?”

"You say that like I’ve never done it before.”

"Yes, well,” Erik says, as coldly as that deserves, "it’s not as if I knew.”

Charles is silent. Ten seconds, twenty, thirty, dispassionate ticks of Erik’s watch. "No,” he says. "No, you didn’t.”

At some point in the early hours of morning, Erik had given in. Whether to his body’s need for sleep, or Charles’ mental tidal wave, he couldn’t judge, but the outcome had been the same in the end. His dreams certainly hadn’t been his own. 

There'd been metal, twisted and broken, and he hadn’t spared a moment for any of it. Shattered glass, sirens, and the heady smell of gasoline. And Erik had been flitting between a city block’s worth of minds, wearing their faces, seeing through their eyes, because there was no better distraction from pain, not ever.

Not that Charles had chosen to try and explain that last night, to tell Erik what he might prefer above painkillers. Whether Erik would have _liked_ allowing Charles to use his mind as an opiate or not was immaterial; the real question was whether he would have offered it, unhesitatingly, instinctively, the moment Charles had expressed the desire.

He'd like to think yes. He doesn't know. He's lost the chance to find out.

Erik is accustomed to being overestimated by Charles. The reverse stings, it's true, but there is always a sort of comfort in unpleasant things that make sense.

"I’ll let Hank in,” Erik says, certain the boy is still outside, even if he appears to have finally had the sense to give up on the door - or, equally likely, Charles mentally advised him to. "But you'll tell me about the accident first." 

Charles nods and begins pulling himself to a sitting position, hand on Erik’s thigh for support at first, then on his upper arm. He keeps his back ramrod straight, not leaning against the couch cushions when he’s done. "It was when Raven and I were still living in Westchester full-time, before you and I met. We'd driven into the city for the day. Just a minor accident, truly, and would have been more minor still if Raven's car had any backseat to speak of."

"You were rear-ended, then."

"Yes. Raven had some bruising from the steering wheel and airbag, and I -" Charles waves a hand at himself. "It really isn't terrible. No surgery required, nothing like that. It simply - reminds me, every so often."

Every word is true, Erik has no doubt, but not a one is worthy of secrecy. Meaning the heart of the matter lies in the omissions.

Perhaps Charles is aware of Erik’s train of thought, because he suddenly becomes distracting, shifting his grip to Erik's shoulder and beginning the slow process of pushing to his feet. Erik grabs Charles' hands and moves with him, providing a constant fulcrum for Charles to lever against. Lips draining alarmingly of color, Charles pauses while still bent over awkwardly at the waist; Erik thinks, _No stopping now, Charles_ , and Charles nods, drawing a breath in through his nose before finishing the job by straightening up at a snail's pace.

When he's done, he freezes, eyes wide and startled, and says, "Bother." Erik has time for one sharp moment of panic before Charles continues, "It would have been wise of me to put my shoes on first." He looks down at his toes and back up at Erik, telegraphing embarrassment and hope.

Erik could get down on the floor and do up Charles’ laces, and he _would_ , but he has a better idea. With a wave of his hand, he fulfills his earlier promise: the door lock mends, the hinges swing open, and Charles’ graduate assistant is free to stop lurking in the hallway, although he appears reluctant to give up doing so. Charles groans, and puts a hand over his eyes; that means he knows what's coming, wishes it weren't, but won't interfere. 

"Hank McCoy!” Erik says, grinning, fully aware he's showing teeth. "Have we got a job for you."

*

"Whatever you threatened him with, it was very effective," Charles says into the phone, hours later, when Erik has given up on finding a sanctioned break in his day and simply walked out of a meeting to call. "Hank hovered suffocatingly all morning."

"I wasn't specific. I let him fill in the details on his own." He hadn't had much time, just a few moments in the corridor while Charles had been distracted by a panicky undergrad.

"Impressive work nonetheless," Charles says. There's a silence, and it takes a moment for Erik to realize it's _too_ silent - if Charles had still been in his office there would be a keyboard clicking in the background, because Charles rarely stops working if there's work to be done in front of him, phone call or no phone call. "I came home early, he was driving me mad."

"Really.” Charles _should_ be at home resting, so that’s to the good, but it still bothers Erik to hear it on a number of levels. For one thing, if the words he’d exchanged with Hank had truly done their job, Hank would currently be entrenched in Charles’ apartment, for another - "You’re lying down, I trust?”

"Yes.” There’s a rustling sound, for Erik’s benefit, of course; covers on the bed, or a blanket on the couch. "Erik. I’m doing the sensible thing and looking after myself. That doesn’t mean you need to leave work to drag me off to a doctor.”

"But you can see how it’s a cause for concern. You being sensible.” 

Charles’ soft laughter is easy, comfortable, and Erik relaxes a little at his desk. Charles can read him from across the city whenever he likes, but Erik can’t see him, can’t touch him, can only go by what he’s able to hear. "Raven should be home in an hour. You can enlist her if you like, but I promise you, she's going to be unbearable regardless.”

"Good." Raven is exactly who Charles needs. The only person who might feel more guilty than Erik, and as a result even angrier at Charles for not taking more care. She'll look after him diligently, and no matter what Charles says she won't give an inch.

Nor will Erik. He hasn't mentioned it yet, but Erik certainly won't be making any demands of Charles' body until it's had time to rebound - two weeks, he's decided, at minimum. He's kept that decision as quiet as he knows how, pressed small in the center of a smooth mental sphere, so that now he's actively planning to open his mouth and let it out, it should be coming as quite a shock -

Even from the other side of Manhattan, Charles' mute, frustrated startlement is absolutely delicious, and Erik is smiling when he hangs up the phone.

*

Days pass, and Charles does nothing to try and change Erik's mind. He doesn't argue, he doesn't coax, he doesn't invite Erik's resolve to slip with sly, enticing touches. At first, Erik assumes this means Charles is still in a great deal of pain, but Charles' movements do steadily grow looser and freer, and when Charles is able to sit down without wincing and rise without knuckling the tabletop for support, Erik finally, properly, exhales. Then he is free to fully consider another option: that Charles is simply respecting Erik's decision and Erik's right to make it.

There is little Erik could appreciate more. 

But Charles doesn't have to be _trying_ in order to be a temptation. There are the unconscious draws, the warmth of his voice at the end of a long day, the smell of his skin, layers of musk and sweetness and lingering spice, and always, always, the particular pull of his blood. It's not easy for Erik to stand his ground, even though he chooses to carry himself as though it is. He imagines it will amuse Charles to ferret out this truth, and it does; he imagines it will arouse Charles, after that, to contrast the evenness in Erik's voice and the restraint in his hands with the want that fires through every nerve. 

And it does. When Erik wants to nose beneath Charles’ collar but makes no sign, when he wants to palm Charles' hip but carries on as if the thought never crossed his mind, it’s Charles who swallows hard, Charles who shifts in his chair, Charles who starts to look just a bit undone.

"I've had more inappropriately-timed erections in the past week and a half than I've had since I was seventeen," Charles tells him over the phone one evening. "Thank you for that."

"Anytime," Erik says cheerfully, as if he hasn't been in much the same boat himself.

Three days left, and Erik's calendar for the Wednesday in question has ruthlessly been cleared. He's devoted a good deal of quiet, careful thought as to how the evening should go. When the tension breaks, nothing else can be allowed to break with it.

*

Erik doesn’t greet Charles at the door. It’s not that preparing dinner requires that much of his attention; it’s a simple meal, pasta and a salad, and metal cookware means he doesn’t need to be at the stove to tend noodles and sauce. But he wants to take in Charles from afar, to assure himself of Charles’ well-being with one final assessment of the way he moves, the way he stands. And after that -

Erik would love whatever Charles chose to wear tonight, because he gets to take it off him. It's as simple as that. And he’ll savor the details then, the smooth, expensive slide of Charles’ shirt over his shoulders, the body-warm weight of his belt buckle. But for now, the big picture: Charles in a charcoal gray shirt and black trousers, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, a button at his neck undone. He may not have left the day behind entirely, but it’s a nice start, and Erik is determined that very soon now he will bury his lips in the hollow of Charles’ throat and kiss and suck until Charles forgets his own name.

Erik, though, Erik will stay in control.

"That smells wonderful," Charles says, slipping behind the island that doubles as Erik's eating and working space. He nudges up beside Erik, shoulder warm against his upper arm, and presses his hello kiss underneath Erik’s jaw in a way that cannot possibly be coincidental. His voice goes plaintive. "Do we really have to eat it now?"

Erik scoops pasta onto plates by way of answer. "Think of it as keeping your strength up," he says, and when Charles narrows his eyes, adds, "and mine."

"You make a clichéd yet convincing argument." There’s a rustle of something in his thoughts, like cotton gliding over skin, scratching gently over hair as it slips down and away; Charles making clear what he would rather be putting in his mouth.

This is precisely the sort of thing Erik had expected from Charles all along. He sits, ignoring the pleasant heaviness between his thighs, and takes a deliberate bite of pasta. It’s not the meal that’s important; it’s that patience is an art best developed by intentional practice, and one he will be master of tonight. 

_Delightful_ , Charles thinks, dry as the wine Erik’s pouring, but Erik knows him: endlessly fascinated with the translation of will into action, endlessly attracted by conviction. He’s loving this.

They don’t linger over dinner, nor do they rush. A steady pace; that’s the way. Afterwards, plates neatly stacked on the counter, Erik reaches for Charles’ hand, and with a smile curving his lips, Charles lets himself be led.

He thinks they’re headed for the bedroom; a hitch in his step as they pass the door proves it. But Erik’s plans don't begin there, and he draws Charles into the bathroom instead, using his power to simultaneously pull the door closed behind them and turn the shower on warm.

"Oh," Charles says, laughing out loud as Erik’s hands settle at Charles’ waist, thumbs hooking under the placket of his shirt. "I thought this was going to be your unsubtle way of telling me breath-freshening would not go amiss." He nods towards the mouthwash by the sink.

"The thoughts you imagine for me are very wise," Erik says, secretly thrilled that it had never crossed his mind, and they both take a moment to let their tongues tingle with mint. Erik then returns his attention to Charles’ shirt, one button at a time; he knows that if he wants to feel skin along the way - and he certainly does - it will have to be with a firm touch. Anything too light and Charles will curl up in a useless, ticklish ball. Something else he’s learned from experience. Something else he’s folded into his way of loving Charles, without regret.

Charles occupies himself with Erik’s neck, beginning with slow, widely spaced kisses until he appears to find a spot that particularly intrigues him, at which point he settles into a rhythm that quickly threatens Erik’s concentration.

Erik's height gives him an advantage; he doesn't have to lean back much to put himself out of Charles' reach. "That was my idea, I believe." 

"And quite a good one, I thought,” Charles says, sucking the moisture from his bottom lip without a trace of shame.

Erik responds by pulling Charles' earlobe between his teeth, making Charles squirm while he frees the last few buttons. He slides his hands up Charles' chest, letting his palms graze Charles' nipples as he lifts fine Italian cotton; behind Charles, the mirror affords Erik a perfect view of Charles' strong shoulder blades as he slips the shirt away. He considers turning Charles around to dip a kiss into the valley between them, then, looking over Charles’ shoulder, easing down Charles’ trousers and underwear to watch Charles’ cock emerge from the same angle Charles himself does every day.

But Charles, of course, is already up to something.

Mimicking Erik's pace, he’s running the flat of his hand up the front of Erik's trousers, dragging his knuckles along Erik's cock. When he reaches Erik’s belt, he curls his hand around the buckle, dipping his fingers under Erik’s waistband; Erik’s cock is dressed straight up, in perfect position for Charles to tease the head with his fingertips while grinding down through the fabric with the heel of his hand. Which he does with enthusiasm until Erik begins to shift the buckle under his hand, along with Charles’ own.

"Can’t have the water getting cold,” Erik says, voice gone hoarse, and Charles, beautifully flushed, agrees.

The shower in Charles’ apartment is a massive installation, done up in stone tile and fitted with multiple heads. Erik’s shower is large enough for two grown men only if they don’t mind standing very close together, and he’d call that the better arrangement. It means he can enjoy the drag of his cock along Charles’ hip when he reaches for the shower gel, some sort of foresty transplant from Charles’ bathroom. Erik has always found a single bottle of shampoo to be sufficient for his purposes - it’s quick, it’s efficient, and it’s not like he doesn’t have hair in more places than his head.

_Truly, Erik? Or are you just in the mood for finding fault with my bathing habits?_ This is accompanied by a skeptical eyebrow, but the effect is ruined by Charles’ hair being plastered down into his eyes so badly that he resembles a terrier out for a swim. Erik skirts the worst of it aside with his thumb, and before he can even lean in Charles is surging up for a kiss.

Charles' cock jabs against Erik's stomach, eager. He's drawing Erik forward, tugging on one lip after the other as if trying to decide which is his favorite, and Erik wants to push into Charles' pull, bring their bodies flush together and trap their cocks heavy between them. He could wrap his hand around them both and give one long, slow stroke - his cock pulses at the thought, jerking against Charles' hip - and Erik could keep it to one stroke, he knows it, he could drop his hand afterwards while his cock throbbed.

He doesn't. Erik would prefer to deny himself than to have something that must in the end be given up.

Erik breaks away to uncap the shower gel and begin working it over Charles’ skin. He brings his slick hands together at Charles' navel, then spreads outward, curving around Charles' hips, finally bringing his palms to bear on Charles' lower back. He means to prepare Charles for his bed, warm his muscles and relax them, make him loose and ready.

Charles drops his forehead to Erik's shoulder, which Erik takes to mean he's on board with this plan. "You have to share how it feels," Erik says. "If I hurt you, I have to know."

"You won't," Charles says, shaping the words against Erik’s skin.

The sensations slip into Erik's mind quietly, but they do the job. Erik is confident he would recognize the first flash of pain should one arise, but for the moment there is only the deep stretch and pull of muscle, almost hypnotic, and the gentle warmth of the shower spray beating down. The head of Charles' cock slides infinitesimally along Erik's stomach with each slow knead of Erik's hands, while the constant roll of water over his own cock is a preoccupation in itself, and Erik cannot help but shift his feet every so often, drawing back and seeking out more pressure in turns.

At last, satisfied with Charles' pliancy under his hands and the echo of it in his mind, Erik bends to lick Charles' nipples, each swift, deliberate flick a signal his work here is done. "Oh _good_ ," Charles breathes, one hand pushing blindly at the shower door even as the the other slips through Erik's wet hair to hold him firmly in place. Erik takes a moment to enjoy watching Charles being conflicted before turning off the water and taking care of the door himself.

*

Nearly all of the pillows in Erik's apartment have been pressed into service. There are two under Charles' head, one under his shoulders, and a smaller one, purchased specially, supporting his lower back. Erik tucks a final pillow beneath Charles' knees and asks, "Good?"

"Very," Charles says, rolling his shoulders, head tipping back, shadows slipping over his face from the soft, low light of Erik's bedside lamp.

Erik hovers over Charles, knees widely bracketing his thighs, hands planted firmly on either side of his shoulders. The only true point of contact between them is Erik's cock, dropping heavily down onto Charles' stomach. He'd softened somewhat on the way to the bed, but that's changing already as he pulls his hips back, drawing a trail over Charles' skin. He stops, letting his tip nudge against Charles', just feeling. "You're dripping all over my pillows," he murmurs, because Charles had done the shoddiest, most rushed job of towelling off Erik had ever been witness to.

"Excellent," Charles says, lips curving. "May as well start as we mean to go on."

Erik bites at Charles' mouth, finally able to take those lips for the perfect invitation they are, then plunges in, stroking his tongue over Charles' again and again. Charles isn't quiet, groaning as he flattens his palms against Erik's back and pushes down, the sudden change in pressure making Erik's hips stutter.

The clear message is that Charles is ready, willing, and able to bear Erik's weight, but it's not as if Erik can trust Charles to know his own limitations. He shifts, bringing the brunt of his weight onto one elbow, and takes both their cocks in hand. When Erik squeezes gently, Charles' breath flutters against his neck.

Erik loves how a cock can be predictable in the same moment that it utterly cannot. He knows what a few swift strokes will do, how much thicker and heavier he'll get and how far Charles will swell. He begins to pull, anticipation as much as friction making his blood pound, but it's the way Charles' cock jumps that makes him suck in air - never any way to know before that happens, or how exactly it will push against Erik's cock, change his grip, change the angle all in one unexpected moment. His hand slides up over Charles' head and comes away freshly slick; the next stroke glides more smoothly, and he passes over Charles' tip again, just because -

And stops. Because that's all he's getting. What can be sensed through his skin, and nothing more.

"I asked for one thing from you,” Erik says, low. He is perfectly still, a man restrained only by his own hold on the leash, and the more intimidating for it. "Did you forget?"

"To be quite accurate, you didn't ask, you _told_ ," Charles says, blithe as only he can be. But then he adds, his sincerity suddenly a slow, curling warmth, "I am sorry. Instinct is the basest form of thought."

Erik is as familiar with Charles' instincts as he is with his own; in many ways they are one and the same. It is why he and Charles mesh as well as why they clash. He breathes, and thinks, _Control that comes only in the face of your restraint is worthless, Charles. Whatever you may think, what you offer is nothing like help._

Charles knows. That admission comes not in words, but in a wave of regret.

Bending his head, Erik takes Charles' nipple lightly in his teeth. Charles' back arches immediately, as Erik knew it would, but there's no echo of discomfort, only a deep, sudden heat from the attentions of Erik's mouth, traveling straight down. Erik is obliging, a hard tug at their cocks pulling a grunt from Charles as he settles into a new, quicker pace.

He keeps working at Charles' left nipple, alternating light scrapes of his teeth with laps of his tongue. He ignores the right for now, thinking vaguely that it will be something for later - but with Charles’ want now pulsing through him, a rising drumbeat, that time may not come. Erik stills his hand, and Charles, gasping, snaps his hips upwards to drive his cock into Erik's palm. Erik responds with one forceful downward thrust, slamming down into Charles - it should not have happened at all, but as he pants against Charles' neck, it is a point of pride that he _does_ stop at the one, with all of Charles wordlessly screaming for more.

Erik slides down Charles' body, ignoring his litany of frustration, and nestles between his legs. Here, the musky warmth that is _Charles_ banishes that fresh-pine scent from the shower once and for all. Erik can't say he minds. He doesn't tease, but gets straight down to business, wrapping one hand around the base of Charles' cock and sucking the head into his mouth. When he narrows the focus to Charles' foreskin, stretching it up over the crown with his lips, Charles bucks so sharply that Erik is forced to pin his hips to the bed.

_Don't make me stop for your own good._ Erik will.

Impossible to tell if Charles' growl is mental, or if it comes from his throat. _Well, if you'd be so good as to keep your hands where they are -_

Erik can feel how much Charles likes it: large, strong hands at his waist, the firm expression of Erik's will. Erik holds his own hips resolutely still, difficult as it is. His cock is trapped tightly between his body and the mattress, and he wants desperately to give it friction, to directly feel something like what echoes from Charles' mind when he presses the flat of his tongue to Charles' slit, or when he bobs his head up and down, up and down -

But he doesn't. Charles implied earlier that he wanted Erik's cock in his mouth, and he will have it. Erik will make Charles comfortable against the headboard, will kneel and slip between Charles' lips, will let Charles lick and suck however he wishes until Erik is shaking and the world whites out around him.

Charles stiffens under Erik's hands and in his mouth, and Erik recognizes the signs. He hollows his cheeks and draws Charles in deep - he'll take whatever Charles has to give - and Charles shudders and comes hard down Erik's throat.

Erik keeps Charles in his mouth for a moment, enjoying the changes as they come - Charles softening, his foreskin loosening - and the trust that comes with them; he knows precisely how sensitive Charles is, after. When Charles' thumb rubs his jaw and his fingers sift through Erik's hair, he knows Charles has caught his breath, and he’s even more certain of it when the hand shifts down to cup his shoulder. Erik lets himself be pulled upwards, and lets go.

*

Erik runs his hand along the slight curve of Charles’ spine, coming to rest in the hollow of Charles’ waist. He loves it as much in the shadows of his bedroom as he did under the fluorescent bulbs in Charles’ office, but with a difference: he knows where the secrets and the pain lie, now, and is all the more mesmerized for it.

Charles sighs, pleased, into the crook of his neck. Erik should probably make him lie flat, to ease any pressure he might be putting on his back, but Charles feels good curled along Erik’s side, warm and sinfully content.

That feeling suddenly intensifies. Subtly, but noticeably, for someone experienced in such matters. A telepath who doesn’t want to move can be a very tricky person to shake. "Yes, all right,” Erik says, rolling his eyes, "but you’re not going to stay like that all night. It’s not good for you.” He pauses. "Also, my arm will fall asleep if you try.”

"Five more minutes, then,” Charles says, wiggling even closer, contrary and compliant all in the same breath. Erik lets him get away with it. He'll keep Charles to that limit, but he'd like five more minutes, too.

Charles' fingers drift over Erik's chest, sketching a pattern that only he can read. "Tonight," he begins, in that voice that always catches at Erik, draws him painfully close with its soft, relentless nakedness. "I know you wouldn't consider it anything special, or anything to be thanked for, but I do. And I will." Charles shifts, craning his neck, and now Erik has to deal with those eyes as well, not piercing in this light, but deep and honest as midnight. "Thank you. For caring so much, and for taking so much care."

"You’re correct," Erik says. "I don't." Perhaps it would be different if they were talking about choices deliberately made, but being good to Charles feels nothing like that, and everything like breathing. Like the only way to move from day to day. 

Erik doesn't direct these thoughts, but builds no wall in front of them either. The idea seems suddenly, laughably absurd: what is the point of whispering, when his every action has been the same as shouting out loud?

Charles smiles and burrows back down against Erik, slow-kissing everywhere his mouth can reach. It's more than pleasant, and a lazy warmth spreads through Erik at every press of Charles' lips. He thinks of reciprocating, and he may, given time, but there's something else to be done first. Charles dragged Erik out into the open; it's time to return the favor.

"Tell me, Charles,” he says into Charles’ hair, which is drying into a truly astounding disarray. "Instincts. The day you and Raven were in that accident, what were yours then?”

The reply comes not in words, but in memories: sharp afternoon sunlight, the noise of the city, Raven stopped safely at a light, and another driver with every thought in his head given over to his phone. So it's Charles who takes control of the wheel at the last minute, yanking it to the right, directing the inevitable impact over to his own side of Raven's perilously tiny car.

Raven would not thank him for that, if she knew. Charles exhales, breath gusting over Erik's skin; of course, that's precisely why she doesn't know.

_You would not have done so very different_.

_Yes and no._ Raven would not have been hurt, if he'd been there. Nor Charles, nor himself either. He would have flung that other car aside in a heartbeat, and spared no thought for the well-being of the texting fool behind the wheel. Erik's not entirely proud of that, but he's not quite sorry for it either.

"Like I said," Charles murmurs, "not so different."

Erik kisses the top of Charles’ head, the curve of his ear, the base of his neck. He lingers at this last, just breathing, until Charles squirms. "Sorry, Charles, that’s all I have time for,” he says, lifting his head. "Your five minutes are up.”

Charles huffs. Erik is immune.

When Charles has arranged himself and the pillows to his and Erik’s mutual satisfaction, a flick of Erik’s power takes care of the lamp. He rolls onto his side, pillowing his head against Charles’ arm, and wonders what their dreams will be.


End file.
